


Night Shift

by PinkFringedFury



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: M/M, Rookie/Carlos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 00:45:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkFringedFury/pseuds/PinkFringedFury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Stand down,” he murmurs into his microphone, “I got this.”</p>
<p>“He’s armed, Rookie.” Buddy’s voice is tinny and monotone. Rookie snorts.</p>
<p>“Please. You think he’s ever held a gun in his life?”</p>
<p>“He’s a scientist. They’re tricky. Watch your back.”</p>
<p>Rookie makes his way back towards the counter, the coffee pot and his mug. He waves his hand dismissively at a nearby camera, mounted in the corner of the room.</p>
<p>“You’re way overdue a re-education,” he says. His grin lilts in his voice. “All this concern? Misplaced. Unnecessary. Anyone would think you gave a rat’s ass.”</p>
<p>“Shut up and do your job,” says Buddy. Rookie almost laughs, but he’s on the job. He gives the camera a two-fingered salute and drums his fingers on the counter, with his back to the door. Rookie removes his cap and places it on the counter. He waits. Any minute now.</p>
<p>There’s the quiet slap of poor quality shoes on cheap flooring and then, there is the cold metal of the barrel of a revolver pressed against Rookie’s left temple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Shift

**Author's Note:**

> There's a Carlos on Twitter and a Sheriff's Secret Policeman Rookie. They banter. Now people ship it. 
> 
> Whoops, fanfiction based on a fanfiction of a fan character. Based on @CWProfessorSays' drabble.

The coffee’s stale. 

It always is. No one’s made a fresh pot since the machine gained sentience a just over a week ago. It’s taken to leaving hurtful personal comments in the creamer as it drips, and although it’s not as though people can’t just stir them away and into the coffee, nobody needs casual abuse first thing in the morning. Particularly not during the small hours of a night shift. 

Rookie watches the machine as it hums to itself. He flicks over his case notes, careful not to smudge the ink. The files are immaculately typewritten; any less would be grounds for A Meeting With Human Resources. Rookie shifts uncomfortably. Humans may well be a valuable resource for the SSP, but as the plethora of cheery posters plastered around the station remind him - they’re an expendable one. He reaches for the coffee pot, regardless of the threat of beverage-based insults. Even through his gloves, Rookie’s gratified to feel that the pot’s warm to the touch, even if the coffee inside has long since congealed against the glass. 

He looks up at the six screens hanging from the first floor breakroom ceiling, each screen flickering with grainy security feed. There’s some damn fool in an ill-fitting labcoat and a well-fitting shirt slicing through the mesh covering over the first floor window; Sergeant Booker’s office. Rookie pauses midway through pouring his coffee to watch the intruder scrabble at the window and heave himself through it. Rookie places the pot back on the warming plate – no need to let it get cold. This won’t take long. His boots make surprisingly little noise on the linoleum floor as he crosses to the open door, looking down the hallway. Empty, so far. It’s a real sloppy attempt at a break in. But then again, that scientist isn’t a professional, so he can at least be cut a standard and municipally approved amount of slack. Rookie glances down at the open front door at the end of the hallway and shakes his head. Some people really do just have to pick the most complicated route.

Rookie lifts his hands to adjust his headset. He presses the headphone over his left ear closer and speaks quietly into his microphone to report the intrusion – not that it requires it; the silent alarms have been shrieking into his ear in incoherent, painful pulses since Carlos triggered two pressure-pads, one tripwire and stumbled through no less than six high-powered radioactive laser sensors on his way from the lab he rents by Big Rico’s Pizza down to the Police Station. He’s been sniffing around the station for days, now. It can’t be classified as any more suspicious than any other of his multiple bizarre and/or civilly disruptive behaviours, but at least he’s causing less of stir than when he’s holed up in his lab with all his beakers, breakers and buzzing electrical equipment. Rookie snorts derisively and removes his hand from his headphone: the intruder has breached SSP office [FF.LV1.RM18]. Rookie listens for the tell-tale silence of a man checking the coast is clear. Beneath the mask, his lips curl into a grin.

“Stand down,” he murmurs into his microphone, “I got this.”

“He’s armed, Rookie.” Buddy’s voice is tinny and monotone. Rookie snorts.

“Please. You think he’s ever held a gun in his life?”

“He’s a scientist. They’re tricky. Watch your back.”

Rookie makes his way back towards the counter, the coffee pot and his mug. He waves his hand dismissively at a nearby camera, mounted in the corner of the room.

“You’re way overdue a re-education,” he says. His grin lilts in his voice. “All this concern? Misplaced. Unnecessary. Anyone would think you gave a rat’s ass."

“Shut up and do your job,” says Buddy. Rookie almost laughs, but he’s on the job. He gives the camera a two-fingered salute and drums his fingers on the counter, with his back to the door. Rookie removes his cap and places it on the counter. He waits. Any minute now.

There’s the quiet slap of poor quality shoes on cheap flooring and then, there is the cold metal of the barrel of a revolver pressed against Rookie’s left temple. He narrows his eyes to get a better look at the handle, blurred at the corner of his vision. It’s a .357 Smith & Wesson, most likely the 586. 

Six rounds.

Six inches. 

Rookie smirks under his mask. 

He doesn’t react beyond calm appraisal of the situation. Carlos is panting. The pressure against his temple fluctuates rapidly. Carlos’ hand is shaking, but he’s trying his damndest to keep himself under control. 

“I’m no stranger to guns, you know,” Rookie says. Conversational. Almost friendly. “Pretty common in my line of work.”

“I don’t care about your ‘line of work’, cabrón,” the scientist hisses. His voice is sharp, but uneven. Determined, but uncertain. What an amateur. Rookie begins to turn, slowly, to face Carlos, but Carlos shoves the barrel of the revolver harder into Rookie’s temple to keep him facing forward. Cute. At least he’s got the sense to press whatever small advantage that a civilian can have over an officer of the law. It’s endearing. It’s exciting. Carlos radiates furious heat against Rookie’s back wherever Rookie isn’t armoured. A simple short-sleeved blue shirt is no defence against the sheer, illicit warmth of a standoff. Rookie’s almost impressed.

“I told you that you showed potential,” Rookie grins as he hears the subtle, gentle creak of tightly gritted teeth. Buddy’s voice rings in his ear, but Rookie ignores him. “Too...what was it you said? Too heartless, too ruthless a job for a guy like you?” He hears Carlos’ breathing quicken.

“But here you are,” he finishes, allowing the implication time to sink in. Rookie lifts his chin and ever so slightly adjusts where the barrel of the gun sits on his temple. A little higher; a better position to kill a man. Much more threatening. Much better. 

The scientist’s agitated breathing hitches - just once, on the inhale – and he speaks in a tone that holds more bravado than either of them is convinced by. 

“I came here to give you a message.”

Rookie rolls his eyes behind his tinted sunglasses.

“You do that plenty already, citizen.”

“Shut up,” Carlos hisses. The revolver shoves into Rookie’s skin harder still, and the feeling shudders down his spine and prickles under his skin. “Leave me alone. Leave Cecil alone.” The anger and vehemence in the order turns quieter, weaker. Exhausted. “Just... leave us alone.”

Rookie could choose to laugh, but he keeps his silence. He drums his fingers on the counter for a few beats, then stops.

“You’re so possessive,” he remarks. Carlos doesn’t speak. Rookie continues. “You act like you own him. Is that what you want? Want to be a tyrant? Seems pretty hypocritical, don’t you think? I mean, taking into account what you think of m--”

Pain bursts behind Rookie’s eyes and down his jaw as Carlos strikes him with the butt of the revolver. His teeth ache in their gums and the hurt shoots across his nerves, tensing his muscles. The months of mandatory, municipally enforced re-education to respond to any painful stimulus throw Rookie from an adrenaline rush into a state of acute focus. The pain is no more than a niggling concern. The world sharpens; the dull colours of the canteen saturate into brightness. He can hear the brush of Carlos’ loose, perfect curls against his neck. He can smell fear and resentment and below it all, he can feel the resonant, awful thrill of a fight for control. They’re both drunk on it. 

Carlos fists his hand in the collar of Rookie’s shirt, pulling him around. There is a moment where Rookie knows he could kill Carlos; reach out in three smooth, fluid movements and kill him: Disarm, Disable, Destroy. A bend, a snap and a sickening, wet crunch. A gurgle. A heavy thud. A standard corpse clean-up. Paperwork. Rookie decides that he doesn’t want the game to end. 

The click of the gun’s hammer echoes as Carlos pulls it back and jams the barrel into the hollow of Rookie’s throat. Carlos seems so convinced that a gun can protect him, but his faith is laughably misplaced. Guns don’t kill people; not in Night Vale. First-grade knowledge. So much for that vast intellect. Carlos speaks – some boring, tedious diatribe that Rookie doesn’t hear so much as he feels. He feels the kiss of the metal. He feels Carlos’ breath – scentless and damp – against his the scant bare skin on his face. He watches the shapes that Carlos’ lips make as he spits and sneers and threatens. Rookie’s pulse races under the barrel of the gun, but it’s not from fear. Carlos leans closer. So does Rookie.

In that moment, Carlos makes the first and only truly daring move of the evening. He reaches up and snatches Rookie’s sunglasses off his face. There is a moment, where the fluorescent lights of the canteen sear Rookie’s naked eyes. Carlos stutters in alarm at the sight. Rookie knows what he sees; a pair of blue irises, sectioned around each pupil like the shutters of a camera. As his eyes adjust, the muscles contract sharply in defence, narrowing his pupil down to pinpricks before they widen again slowly. Carlos regains his composure and Rookie’s sight adjusts perfectly. They stare at one another, scientist and officer, in the comforting lull of a confrontation, tense and fierce and perfect. Carlos taps the gun against Rookie’s throat.

“Look me in the eyes,” he says, low and steady, “and tell me I wouldn’t.” The scientist might have called it a dangerous tone, but it rolls off his tongue and slips past his lips in a way that can only be a solicitation. Rookie keeps silent – daring, willing Carlos to act. 

Carlos pulls the trigger.

Rookie flinches on pure evolutionary instinct. But there is no sound, no glimpse of the void, no familiar sensation of free-fall. He is giddy with desire, and there was no bullet.

“I’m not like you,” the scientist hisses, pulling the gun away. “But if you push and warp me enough, Rookie? I can be.” His voice drips venom. Rookie keeps his jaw set, his eyes expressionless and ignores the tension of his muscles and the desperate throb between his legs. There was no bullet. Carlos turns his back and walks away, out of the breakroom, down the hallway, towards the open front door. Rookie knows that there are four oubliettes, two spike pits, one row of semi-automatic blowdarts and a large, cartoonishly sharp swinging blade between Carlos and the way out. He does not issue the command to activate any of them. Buddy has fallen silent in his ear, or perhaps Rookie tuned him out long ago. He watches Carlos walk, one foot in front of the other, until he is a shadow through the door and then he is nothing. He is the ghost of sensation. He is the foreign heat that fades from Rookie’s body. He is the smell of chemicals and something beyond quantification. He is the unclaimed words behind Rookie’s teeth. He is the static that buzzes behind Rookie’s shutter-eyes as they dilate, slowly and carefully, until the world is black and white again.

Rookie exhales. 

He turns back to the counter, and returns to pouring himself a coffee, although ‘pour’ seems like an insufficient verb to describe such an ugly action. Rookie’s movements are smooth and fluid, and the coffee is not. It is a clumping, sticky thing that oozes from the pot, almost moulding, highly toxic. 

“Don’t drink that, jackass,” says Buddy. Rookie shrugs. He stoops to pick up his discarded sunglasses, sliding them back onto his face. He retrieves his hat from the counter but doesn’t wear it. He’s still unbearably hot and that’s irritating. It’s also perfect. He tugs down his lower facial mask and lifts the mug to his lips, but frowns as he looks into the slopping mess inside. There is a shape forming in the creamer as it congeals on the top of the coffee. It is a very simple, universally connotative shape. It’s also a dirty slur. Rookie pulls a face and sets the coffee cup down, abandoning it.

The world shines and decays, too sharp in places and too dull in others. Rookie picks his way carefully along the hall, passing the week’s trigger points with relative mindlessness, although he recalls clearly that the fourth segment of the ninth diametrically patterned tile in from the left-hand side is particularly sensitive this week. There is a small bathroom just seven rooms down, away from the front door and deeper into the station. It’s a bathroom just before the labyrinth begins – because hey, it’s one hell of a walk down into the catacombs and you don’t want to go in and get caught short halfway through. He taps the keycode into the lock and tugs off his gloves with his teeth, allowing the reader to scan his fingerprints, one after the other. There’s a few seconds of noisy processing. The bathroom door unlocks with the slam of automated bolts retracting, and Rookie enters.

The halogen lights gutter and flare as Rookie closes the door behind him and locks himself in. The bathroom’s small – no bigger than any storage cupboard. There’s a sink, a two-way mirror, an off-white toilet and the necessary accessories that go with it. The camera hanging above the toilet swivels to appraise him as he approaches.

“What’s up, partner?” asks Buddy. Rookie rubs his eyes beneath his sunglasses and looks up at the camera. It watches him with idle interest as he leans forward against the closest wall and palms himself through his uniform trousers. After a moment of lazy petting, he stuffs his gloves into his pocket and unzips his fly. Too many belts and buckles to shove his trousers down to his thighs. He’ll have to manage with this much. Buddy makes a noise of flat disinterest.

“What is it with you and guns?”

“You watching or not?” asks Rookie. For all that he’s uncomfortable with the need to get off, he can’t stop himself from grinning. “I need to decide if I’m making this a show or not.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” says Buddy. The camera doesn’t change position, but Rookie assumes he’s only being watched to a standard level of observation.

As he reaches into his fly and wraps his hand around his erection, even that simple action makes him groan. Goddamn. It’s been almost three weeks on the job without so much as a late-night jerk-off to ease the stress. He drops both hands between his legs to free his cock from his trousers, already painfully hard. The head is hot and sticky, flush with blood and messy with smeared precome. Classy. Real classy. Rookie spits into his right hand and works himself over with a few languid strokes, smearing saliva across the thick flesh. It’s good enough for what he needs. It’ll get the job done. 

As he glides his fist over his dick, Rookie remembers. He remembers the gun and the breath and the heat. He remembers the threats, the looks and the loathing. He remembers the stolen taste of someone else’s reluctant mouth, a hand on his throat, the click of Buddy’s camera as a moment was captured forever for the sake of evidence. Rookie remembers tasting the moment when the break-in, the person, the proximity lost all meaning to Carlos – the moment when a scowl became a smooch, when a smooch became a kiss, when a kiss turned messy in the dark and how wet, plush lips twisted into a scowl just two beats after. He gasps as he picks up the pace, scraping his thumbnail over the slit of his dick. The feeling is painfully intense, bordering between awful and perfect. His toes curl in his boots and he leans one arm against the bathroom wall as he masturbates, panting. It’s good. It’s so good.

Carlos’ voice echoes behind Rookie’s chest, but the words mean nothing in relation to the lingering sound, the unsaid implications, the desperation of a plea for mercy delivered with the threat of the void. Rookie scrapes again and bucks his hips, biting into the meat of his arm to stifle his grunt. The gun wasn’t loaded. The gun’s always loaded. He feels cheated and thrilled all at once, invigorated with revulsion and pleasure. He wants to show Carlos a loaded gun. He wants to make Carlos hold it, pull the trigger, feel the recoil shudder down the scientist’s arm even as he fucks Rookie’s fist. It’ll be over-lubed, wet enough to produce a slick, disgusting sound with every quick jerk. Carlos will moan. Rookie will press the barrel of the gun against the scientist’s thigh and burn a perfect ring into his flesh, lick it clean, bring Carlos to his knees and force him to suck his dick with one hand fisted in that perfect, perfect hair and the other keeping the gun in Carlos’ mouth. He’ll be messy. He’ll make noise. He will be repulsive and he will moan like he’s dying. 

It’s so easy to imagine how Carlos will brace his hands against Rookie’s hips – first to stop him thrusting, then to anchor himself, and finally to encourage him. Rookie pictures pressing his boot between Carlos’ legs and finding pressure in response, works his cock mercilessly to the thought of a loose mouth trying hard to suck him dry as Carlos ruts helplessly against the sole of Rookie’s boot. He’ll make Carlos swallow, of course. The evidence needs to be removed. They won’t speak of this unknown, unknowable act of will between them, nor will they understand it in terms outside of dirty floors and muffled, hateful moaning. Rookie shoves his free hand into his trousers to squeeze and grip his testicles, and comes with a sharp hiss, a low groan and three snaps of his hips.

There is silence, in the bathroom. The lights will gutter if Rookie doesn’t move soon – they’re on a sensor. Everything is. Rookie breathes heavily, limbs light, legs boneless with relief. All the pent-up stress washed away with just a three minute handjob. He slumps his shoulder against the bathroom wall and presses his cheek to the plaster. A smooth, cool surface. Immensely welcome. He yanks a handful of toilet roll down, cleaning off his hands and his wilting erection.

“Feeling better?”

Rookie makes a non-committal noise, flushing the soiled tissues away. He rolls his shoulders out, then his neck, easing out the cricks and kinks as the toilet destroys the evidence.

“I’m pretty sure the Greater Night Vale Medical Community could do a lot worse than recommending a little self-care,” he says. Buddy snorts unattractively down the connection.

“Try asking the Voice to read that one out on the radio.”

“Hey,” says Rookie, sharply. “The Voice does a good job. Back off.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Buddy laughs. “You’re still sweet on him. Cute. Grow a pair, wash your hands and get back to work.”

“You know, most people say thanks when they get a free show, Bud,” sniggers Rookie. Buddy signs off the channel and into a different dialogue with another officer. Go figure he’s too stingy to thank anyone for anything. Rookie laughs under his breath as he heads for the sink. The water comes through hot after a couple of seconds, sluicing off the dirt, the spit and the lingering semen. Once they’re clean, he pushes his sunglasses up his forehead and switches the taps from hot to cold, splashing his face with cool water and swilling out his mouth. He wonders who was behind the mirror this time, and offers whoever it was an apologetic grin and a lop-sided shrug. Somewhere in the corner of his vision, Rookie’s almost certain that there’s a Faceless Old Woman tutting in immense disapproval, planning to rearrange the contents of the staff canteen in retribution for Rookie’s obscene display. He resolutely ignores her presence and heads for the door, pulling his gloves back out of his pocket.

He picks his way back through the hallway, past the breakroom, catches the scent of chemicals and some unknown element that lingers in the air and takes a sharp left down a concealed corridor. As Rookie begins the endless trek back to the wide hall in which his desk (currently upside down, glued to the floor and covered in miscellaneous debris) is situated. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and brings up the calendar, flicking through his schedule until he reaches Monday. Aside from a joint interrogation of a trader suspected of dealing in unregistered shipments of imaginary corn, a standard debriefing and defibrillating session, and the promise to get lunch at Subway with Buddy to avoid incurring the wrath of nameless, incorporeal entities later in the week, he’s got no major plans. He double-taps the day to book an appointment in, tapping the screen in quick, jabbing motions: [Social Visit/Civilian Liaison]. 

Rookie adjusts his microphone, switches feeds on his headset, and clicks through a slew of conversations and static hisses until he finds Buddy again. There’s no way to tell how many hours of his shift are left, but he knows it’ll be a long one. Probably another three day solid streak. Rookie beams under his mask and cracks his knuckles.

Perfect. Everything’s perfect.


End file.
